


I Travel with the Dragonborn

by NorroenDyrd



Series: The Shyest Vampire [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Crushes, Dorks in Love, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), F/M, Gen, Kindness, Secret Crush, Secret Identity, Shyness, Sidekicks, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 12:03:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10990566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: Midir, a timid and insecure newcomer to Skyrim, is the one who wields the power of the Voice - but as he is both an elf and a vampire, he prefers it when his best and so far only friend and travelling companion Erik plays the hero in public, while he, in turn, pretends to be his sidekick, because a brave young Nord is a far more fitting candidate for the momentous role of the Dovahkiin. The latest addition to the adventuring team, an enthusiastic young Companion named Ria, does not see through their ruse - but despite her fascination with all things heroic, she still finds herself more drawn to the supposed elven sidekick than to the dragon-slaying Nord.





	I Travel with the Dragonborn

My name is Ria. But my Shield Siblings from Jorvaskr (oh dear gods, it is still a bit too much to take in... I have Shield Siblings!) often refer to me as the Bear Girl.  
  
That's because, when I just arrived in Whiterun to join the Companions' (glorious!) ranks, I couldn't stop bragging about how I had recently killed a real, honest-to-goodness, eight... or maybe nine... ten foot tall bear!  
  
Well, to be quite honest, it was the nerves talking. I mean, the Companions have always been my heroes, ever since I was a little squirt of a girl, racing with a tiny wooden sword down the streets of the foggy, sleepy town of Falkreath, and trying my utmost to make things seem less... grey. And when I finally got a chance to meet them, to fight side by side with them, it made my mind get all... overcrowded with... feelings. Like - like Sheogorath himself was whirling round and round inside my head, scattering bursts of rainbow sparks everywhere... Made it rather hard to bring things into focus, and to properly realize what was saying coming out of my gaping mouth.  
  
When I first crossed paths with the Companions - the great huntress Aela and the ferocious warrior twins, Farkas and Vilkas - they were busy beating down a giant that had apparently got it into his head that the local farmer's cabbages would look better if squished hard into the ground.  
  
I tried my best to help, too, having come rushing in with a sword I had just, uh, borrowed for myself - and actually, I did a sort of decent job, dodging the big brute's blows and even leaving a nick or two across the creature's long, bulging arms. And then, there came the moment of my crowning triumph - one of my sword's cuts suddenly began to bleed so badly that the giant collapsed, weakened and wobbly like a mushroom stalk, allowing Aela and her Shield Brothers to finish the beast off.  
  
Startled by how strong my own blow had turned out, I just stood there and stared blankly at the heaving pile of greyish flesh and matted fur that had once been the giant, while Sheogorath began his dance, and my limbs tingled with a gleeful realization that I had... That I had actually aided the legendary Companions themselves!  
  
So when Aela patted me on the shoulder and said, 'Nicely done, whelp'... All I could do was grin at her stupidly and announce, flustered and giddy and not quite conscious,  
  
'I also killed a bear!'  
  
So yes, now they call me the Bear Girl... Which is not too bad a nickname, considering.  
  
For instance, my friend Athis (at least, I hope he is my friend; you can never tell with someone who scowls so much) says that, when he was new at the meadhall, his nickname was Normal Elf. Each time he got called that, he responded with 'Normal as opposed to what?' and a challenge to a fist fight.  
  
Oh, but that was a long-winded introduction, wasn't it? I sort of flew off a tangent there, as my mother's... special friend, Delacourt the bard, would call it. I just meant to say what my name was. So, uh, let's try again?  
  
My name is Ria. Or Bear Girl. And I am the luckiest person in Skyrim - no, in all of Tamriel. In all of Nirn.  
  
Not only have I managed to fulfill my girlish dream and earn the honour of sitting at the same feast table with the mighty Skjor, vanquisher of the one hundred and one orc berserkers (he says it was more like forty, but he is just being modest) - but when I am not needed at the mead hall, I also get to travel with the Dragonborn! The mighty hero of Skyrim! The great, the powerful, the fearless Erik the Slayer!  
  
I first met him during one of my travels on a mission with Farkas and Vilkas. We were supposed to kill a pack of voracious brown bears (that's why Villas took me along - 'More bears for you, cub', he'd told me, smirking) that had strayed too far from their usual hunting grounds and started terrorizing the locals from a nearby logging site.  
  
As it turned out, the bears were being controlled by an ancient Spriggan matron, whose anger at the loggers had made her twisted and dark and bloodthirsty... Something that tends to happen rather often when someone disturbs the slumber of creatures living in a sacred grove (just ask Temba Wide-Arm). The Spriggan and her brood might have clawed us to shreds, if it were not for the Dragonborn... And his companion.  
  
His companion... It's - it's a bit funny when I think of him, that quiet, pale Wood Elf, who follows the great Slayer like a faithful shadow, carrying arrows for his bow, along with a spare blade, shouldering the burden of the loot from ancient barrows, and helpfully handing the Dragonborn potions and bandages in camp whenever he has to recuperate from a wound (no, no, wait -scratch! The inimitable Erik does not get wounded!).  
  
I don't think I am supposed to notice him much - at least, he does not seem to like it when I notice him. He gets so sheepish and embarrassed when my eyes meet his and I forget to instantly look away (well, I do have an excuse: his eyes are nearly impossible not to focus on... so large and so deep, and filled with such bright golden glow, and so beautifully shaped... Oh my - that's another tangent, isn't it?). Somehow, when I look at him, it always makes me smile - and as I do that, the Wood Elf never fails to respond with a curious, faint little noise, something between a gasp and a moan, and pull his long, glossy black hair over his face.  
  
'Please pay no heed to me,' he always whispers, falling back and casting some sort of spell on himself to make the outlines of his small, slightly cowering figure grow fainter, blending in with the (usually snowy) background.  
  
'It is the Dragonborn you are journeying with - he deserves all your attention'.  
  
And I guess he is right... Maybe?  
  
I mean... Erik the Slayer _is_ an truly remarkable person. The perfect embodiment of the very best among the Nord legends that I have heard, growing up in this frozen land, so far away from my ancestors' home in Cyrodiil that even I sometimes consider myself more of a Nord than an Imperial. And as an an... almost-Nord, I know I should be in awe of Erik, just as everyone else in Skyrim is in awe of him, from the loitering drunks at some tavern in the middle of nowhere to the lofty Jarls. His heroic tale is straight out of storybook: a simple farmboy with a big dream, stifled in the shadow of his overprotective father and finally daring to do more, to be more than people have expected of him... Only to learn, during an epic journey of self-discovery, that the gods have bestowed upon him a sacred gift - the soul of a dragon, and the power to wield the natural the elements like weapons and bend the wills of his foes with a single, commanding phrase in an ancient tongue... And together with this gift, there comes an immense, inhuman responsibility: shielding the people of Tamriel from great evils, every day and night, until his very last breath.  
  
Just the mere thought of Erik the Slayer's destiny make my heart race! What a treasured boon, to be able to walk by his side, to learn from him, to know that he has, for some inexplicable reason, taken a liking to me... And he is quite easy on the eyes, as well, with his strong shoulders and flaming red hair and sky-blue gaze. A lot of women (and men) in my position might have seized the chance and took to putting every possible effort into becoming his lover. And what honour, what wondrous good fortune it might have been! I should be... what was the word Delacourt would have used for it... be enamoured with the mighty Dragonborn. It's only logical - and I really do admire him, as much as I do the Companions... But - but his companion... His companion seems to intrigue me more.  
  
He barely talks about himself, this Midir (I think that's how Erik calls him). In fact, he barely talks at all. When I, or any other folk for that matter, say, at one of those cozy Nordic gatherings by the fireside, try to rope him into a conversation, he does his little magical fading trick and melts away till you forget he was ever there. Speaking of gatherings: he does not dare to as much as enter a tavern or any other crowded building unless expressly invited by Erik - and even then, he spends a great deal of time shuffling about on the threshold, apologizing for taking up space.  
  
I am quite certain that such behaviour would have prompted most true warriors, like my Shield Siblings, for instance, to look down on him, to dismiss him as a quivering, snivelling milk drinker... But the most wonderful thing about Midir is that calling him names like this would have been completely wrong.  
  
He may be too shy to speak up or hold your gaze - but he is always there. In battle, he is always there. Most eyes are on the Dragonborn, of course - and mine are, too. At first, I could barely tear myself away from the great Slayer in the glory of his battle rage... But eventually, after a few shared adventures, I have come to notice; I have come to see.  
  
I see Midir.  
  
I see him weaving spells - fearsome barriers of purple fire that hold off the creatures assaulting Erik from behind, which he would not have even noticed otherwise, too busy swiping his great sword in front of him.  
  
I see him standing by Erik's side whenever he prepares to Shout, his lips barely moving as he whispers a few short words, which always appear to bolster the Slayer's strength and make his Thu'Um reap through the enemy ranks like an unstoppable scythe travelling through a field.  
  
I see him staying behind long after Erik has marched off down the road, eager to report to the jarl's men that yet another threat to the peace has been dealt with, and to receive his rightly owned reward and glowing praise - and a bard song or two. I see him coming up to the handful of commoners that may have been injured during the bandit or dragon attack; I see him kneeling in front of them and passing his bony white hands over their wounds and bruises, stitching the bleeding marks in their flesh with threads of warm light. And if there are children among those hurt, I see him cradling them in his arms, murmuring a song to calm their frightened sobbing, and growing so absorbed in soothing them that he forgets to let his hair hang loose in a concealing curtain, the way he does when he is being watched, and leaves his angular, hook-nosed profile exposed, with a clear view of his gentle expression.  
  
I see him - and again and again, this makes me smile. And... And I think I know what it means.  
  
My name is Ria; I am the luckiest person in Skyrim - and also, apparently the oddest one. I travel with the living legend, the majestic Dragonborn - and yet... I seem to be developing an irresistible crush on the unassuming little elf that carries his bags.


End file.
